


From Unfamiliar, Down to What Is Known (You Know What They Say, Can't Look Away)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Divergence, Drowning, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Post-Amon Hen, basically the 'and i'm coming with you' scene that invented romance, but about water this time, lots of metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: It is often said that when bad things happen, those around are drawn to it; unable to look away yet unable to do anything at all to help.Sam wades through the water, waist-deep and evergrowing higher. Frodo watches. He waits, for he knows Sam cannot swim and he knows what will happen next.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	From Unfamiliar, Down to What Is Known (You Know What They Say, Can't Look Away)

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a bit weird. Kinda just said fuck it and threw all the metaphors and rambling imagery that I usually try to restrict myself from using and then called it a day. Hopefully, it makes sense; and hopefully it isn't too wordy. (Who am I kidding? I wrote this, it's always too wordy)
> 
> Regardless, I love this scene. I guess this is a darker twist on it, but I've always liked how even though Frodo knows Sam can't swim, he doesn't instantly go to help him. It takes him until Sam is literally drowning before he's like 'oh shit maybe I should pull him out', which just shows how loyal Sam is and how paranoid Frodo is becoming as a result of the Ring's influence PERFECTLY. 
> 
> Anyway, hope y'all enjoy! :)))

Sam's steps are large and sure, perhaps the surest Frodo has ever seen them, as he storms forwards without even a moment of concern for his own wellbeing. (Too selfless, Sam. Always putting others before himself. Not a selfish bone in his entire body, not even if the whole world depended on it)

He powers through the water, creating loud ripples that form havoc in the calm waters. Foam splashes upwards, white and cold and frothed with determined anger; as if Sam's own emotions have embodied themselves in the rippling surface.

Frodo is reminded of those seafoam stallions of an age ago, when shadows had fallen over his eyes and he had been sure he was dreaming. Powerful beasts, strong and steadfast. Steady, reliable. _Magic_.

But Sam is a hobbit. (A hobbit that cannot swim, it might be added) He is not like a whimsical spell from long-passed Gandalf's staff, neither is he like the cloudlike power of the elves, ever-shifting and never stagnant. Sam's magic lingers in the ground, of natural forms and things that grow. Plants; trees and rose bushes, not rivers and water. Sam is what does not change, Sam is _roots,_ buried deep and strong, he holds his ground and he is always familiar. Oak, cedar, maple, birch. He is what _stays,_ not like the water which can never be stagnant; always changing, always moving.

This does not deter him one bit, however. Still, he continues forwards. Determination set grim on his face, unwavering steel where kind smiles had once lingered.

Stubbornness was a Gamgee trait. Stubbornness and loyalty. Even if it meant certain death, Sam would not falter in his path; not even once.

In he wades, deeper and deeper. The blueness (for the water was like the sun-wreathed sky, crystalline in its own clearness) of the river rising and rising. His calves disappeared first until all that could be seen was wishy-washy brown, distorted under the surface. Up to his knees, the blueness swallows. His thighs, rising to hips. It reaches Sam's stomach and he does not falter once. He is disappearing under the rush of water, down and down to the depths of the riverbed. His feet still touch the dirt, still tangled in the soil and mud and earth, but soon that will disappear and he will fall.

Frodo's hands had stilled long ago, since he had heard that yell, familiar in voice but lost in heartache. _(Betrayal,_ for Frodo was going to leave him behind) The oars lay beside him, forgotten tools as he is unable to do nothing but watch. Disasters and calamities had a strange way of drawing eyes to them. You watch and you watch and you watch and you already know what will happen, you know that - if you move, act, do anything at all - you have the power to stop it. But your eyes watch, and they are stuck. You can't look away and all you can do is wait for the inevitable to happen. Frodo's hands twitch, fingers reaching for the forgotten oars, but he cannot move. Focused, every piece of him fixated on the sight before him. Tragedy is beautiful in its own strange twilight and Frodo finds himself drawn to it like a moth to a flame. _Watch,_ a voice whispers to him; one that he does not recognise. _Look at what you've done. This is your fault. This is why you must leave._

Sam's shirt has darkened where spray has beaten against him. Where the ripples have risen and sunk, leaving their shadowy remains behind. Water glistens on his face, sparkles in his hair. Stains his cheeks, salted and wrought through pain. He does not stop. He continues, deeper and deeper. He looks beautiful, skin aglow in the morning sunlight. Luminous, he glows with light from deep within. The shadows of the water rise, but not once does his ever-gold fade. Ethereal, is Sam as he sinks deeper and deeper. 

Frodo, as he watches in ceaseless stillness, finds himself drawn to the memory of the Sea. A gull's cry overhead and Frodo thinks of the elves, creatures spun of beauty and magic. The water takes them too, takes their light and takes them away forever. _Westwards;_ but this water only drags down.

Sam is sinking deeper and deeper. The water has risen to his chest now and it is steadily rising higher. Higher and higher and Sam's light still glows, but the water pulls him down and he is fading. He is fading and Frodo watches, completely still. 

Helpless, Frodo cannot move. His muscles have seized, frozen; a startled deer. As if locked in place, he is unable to do anything but watch. It's as if the time around him has halted, the seconds have stopped ticking by and he is trapped to watch the world go on around him. The ring is hot against his chest, chain heavy around his neck. He chokes, heart pounding in his throat.

Sam steps again. Another. One more. Then another. More quickly now, he rushes forward to Frodo with that steely glint in his honeysuckle eyes, but then all too soon there is no ground for him to step on to.

Rivers are finicky things, deep when shadows tricked shallow rocks, shallow when the murky depths hid their bottoms. This river, in particular, was an illusionist. Where the ground should have sloped, a ramp into deeper and darker waters, there was nothing. Empty space, a ravine to the very centre of Middle Earth. A cavernous gap that swallowed Sam whole. Like a merchant's gifts, elixirs of lavender scent that doubled as love potions, strange creams that stopped hair from falling out and strange smelling lotions that would do all sorts of things. Full of tricks and lies, the river was. False promises and sneaking ways, the water was unpredictable and Sam had found himself at the sharp end of a sword, out of wits and far under the surface.

He falls, hands scrabbling at the air. They claw around the water, as if wishing that it would solidify under his wanting touch. Harden and form clumps of ice, something that could be grabbed and held on to. A float, a wayward piece of driftwood. But there was nothing and Sam's hands thrashed and flailed over the water's surface before they too were sucked downwards. Only the barest of ripples remained, as if the water itself were wiping its hands clean of the crime. It had taken Sam under, but there would be no remembrance of such a thing. Only Frodo would know what happened out here so far away from the shore. All that remains is a golden shadow, sinking further and further down.

_He can't swim._

Frodo knows this like he knows his own name. Sam can't swim. He wasn't one for water, not ever, what; with its tricksome ways and unpredictable twists and turns. Ever-changing, never once stagnant, Sam had stayed wary of its depths, content to wade where his feet were still amongst that familiar of dirt and roots and soil. An admirer from afar was Sam. Content to watch it shimmer in ghostly pallor under the golden sun, but unwilling to become a piece of it, to feel it supporting bodies and limbs and to fight against its sinking hold. 

Sam was sinking to what he knew. Back to the ground, back to where things grow. Pulled to it like a wasp to honey, drawn into the land he worked. Down and down, to the very bottom. 

It is only then, when the glow of blonde curls darkened by thickening water fades to greyed blue, that Frodo reacts. The oars tremble in his hands, fingers slipping on the wood and unable to catch grip. He's panicking and his movements are suffering for it.

Breathing slow, controlling panicked breaths, he plunges them into the water. When his strokes had once been strong and purposeful, done with efficiency and skill, they now became haphazard and manic. He pulls, pushes, beats the oars against the water, any attempt to propel himself forwards. He's choking on air, unable to breathe. Panic claws at him like a savage beast, long nails untamed and wild. Slicing at his innards. It is the first time since their journey had begun that he is truly unaware of the ring. The beast has engulfed all other thoughts until the only thing he can see is that shadow of Sam, a mock-silhouette of what should be the living.

Shadow, in blue. Sam. Down and down, sinking to the bottom.

_Go._ He whispers to himself, voice caught like a trapped mouse, lost in the thrashing of ferocious waves. The shadow grows bigger, closer. Humanoid, a blob of grey below the surface. 

He forces his hand through it, white froth foaming about his wrists. 

Down, he pushes. The water fights him. _Mine,_ it whispers. _He is mine now._ But Frodo fights it. He forces his hand deeper, lost in cold and searching for warmth. 

Thick water. Wild. Untamed. Feral. 

Of Shire festivals, his mind is drawn to as panic takes control. The needle in the haystack. Gleaming silver lost in scratched yellow.

The brightest gold lost in endless blue. 

Something warm hits him. Flesh, skin. Blood pumps, heart thrums. His hand grasps, it slips, but it does not let go. Fingers clenched around strong wrist; he can feel the strands of wet hair plastered on the backs, rising to forearms that bear scratches they once did not.

Roughened hands are clasped in his. The hold is too weak, fading, but Frodo must be strong enough and he holds on for the both of them. 

He pulls and his muscles burn, screaming their protests at him in painful spasms. He ignores it all, adrenaline bursting through his blood like the very air he breathes.

A pull, a heave. All his strength, poured into one movement. 

Sam breaks the surface, mouth open and eyes shut tight. Frodo's heart clenches as his body, heavy and weighed down with soppened fabric, tumbles like a doll of straw into the rowing boat. For a few moments, Sam does not move. His eyes do not twitch and his mouth is thin, pink lips bruised purple at their downturned edges. _Dead,_ Frodo fears and he swears the water lets out a cruel cackle, frothing spit like laughter as it says _I told you. Mine, not yours. Never again._

Until Sam coughs and Frodo lets out a breath.

Water pours from his mouth in choking splutters, ones that run down deep into his chest and rattle against his ribcage. Great, heaving gasps. Lungs spilling, heart pumping, voice hacked and raw. Frodo's fingers find the line of Sam's back, packed with hard muscle. _Oh, Sam,_ he wants to say; but such simple words do not seem to serve the justice he deserves.

Instead, he leans against Sam, mindless of the cool, soaking water that seeps deep under his skin. Head against the crook of Sam's shoulder, nose finding the dip of his collarbone, he breathes in. 

Sam wraps his arms about him, cold and damp and uncomfortable. The boat rocks, the dropped oars dig painfully into Frodo's sides.

His fingers tug at Sam's face, tracing the scarred forehead and smooth skin. Tangled in curls, moonlight fingers in sun-woven strands, he pulls Sam towards him.

Water, clear and sweet. The tang of dust and dirt, something else. Lips on his own, breath mingling in the morning air, he closes his eyes and lets the tears fall.

Salt tracks and blends, stinging eyes and dampened cheeks. Salty, mingling between his lips. He pulls back, cradles Sam's face in the palms of his hands. 

The two of them, together. 

He leans in once more and captures Sam's lips with his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> Me writing about SamFro kissing like :))))))))))))


End file.
